All That We've Got
by Invaderk
Summary: PepperxTony. Iron Man nonsense oneshots, most romantic in some way and all full of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts! Chapter 2: He knows he's made a mistake, but it's too late now. There's no going back.
1. First Impressions

A/n: So I finally decided to face my fears and write an Iron Man piece. Why? Because it's a fantastic series, that's why.

Admittedly, I first heard of/fell in love with Iron Man when I read the Civil War series, and at that point I didn't know who the redhead dating Happy Hogan was. But then I saw the movie and... well, you can guess the rest. Anyway, I thought the movie was super cool (saw it twice) and RDJ did a fantastic job portraying my favorite "likable asshole".

This story is... I don't know. An experiment. Part one is disposable, so you can skim through it if you like--I only put it in there because I like the recurring theme. Part II was much more fun, and hopefully you'll like it too!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Happy Reading!

* * *

_First Impressions_

_Part I: The Interview_

The trouble with interviewing Tony Stark is not getting him to dinner, this much I learned first hand.

After this whole "Iron Man" incident came about, it became nearly impossible to get an interview with the now super famous Tony Stark—and when I say super famous, it's no joke, not a play on words. If the guy hadn't already been Mr. "I'm on the cover of every magazine", he sure was now. At any rate, I was one of the few reporters with a boss desperate enough to personally track down Mr. Stark's PA and beg for an interview. At first he got the usual "I'll call you back" just like everyone else, but after a week of persistence, he finally got the OK; apparently Iron Man thought it was about time to open up to the press—from what I'd heard, he absolutely loved the publicity. Not to say that I couldn't blame him.

So when my boss approached me three days ago with the news that I would be giving the interview at 7:30 sharp at _El Cisne, _I was only moderately surprised—not enough to have to sit down, but surprised enough so that I didn't point out the doughnut crumbs dangling from his mustache.

"I've been told to keep this interview strictly secret," said Chuck quietly, licking his lips nervously. A bit of crumb fell down his button-up shirt. "If the public finds out that he's making an appearance in public, the both of you'll be swamped."

The next three days were spent rigorously preparing everything from my questions to the shade of lipstick to suit my dress. Everything needed to be flawless, right down to the six pens I was to carry in my purse.

And yet, somehow, I couldn't help but feel desperately unprepared as I stood outside the restaurant in my fancy dress, clutching at my purse and looking at the clock tower across the way every few seconds. Finally, at exactly 7:29 PM (Gosh, I could _not_ stop looking at the clock!), a limousine pulled up to the curb and stopped just outside the doors. Seeing as this was one of the more exquisite places to eat outside of Malibu, the presence of the long, black car wasn't much to think about. The man who opened the door and helped himself out of the limo, however, was hardly ordinary.

He was shorter than I'd recalled seeing on TV, I noticed with a slight smirk. His tux, hair, even his sunglasses, were all impeccably new and clean. When he closed the door with a quick instruction relay to the driver and turned to me, I felt my stomach twist; it was as if I were giving my very first interview, talking to the first famous person I'd ever seen, and I'd talked to my share of them.

"Katherine Gray?"

I stuck out my hand almost mechanically. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Stark. We're honored to have this opportunity—"

"You know, it's funny," he cut across pleasantly, removing his sunglasses with a swift gesture to get a better look. My hand fell to my side, unacknowledged. "When my PA told me your name, I was sure you'd be one of those drab women who wear those gray suits—but I admit, I'm pleasantly surprised!"

"Uh, well…"

Stark offered his arm. "Let's go inside, shall we?" Nodding after a slight pause, I placed a hand on his arm and allowed him to guide us through the sparklingly-lit doors of the restaurant. "They've got a famous martini that I'm sure you'll love."

I couldn't stop but notice on our way in that a number of people had stopped in place—in some cases, in the middle of the road, where they were promptly startled by honking cars—to watch in surprise Iron Man's first public appearance. Upon casting a sideways glance at him, though, I only saw a small smirk twitching in the corners of his mouth. Another woman stopped just a few feet away from us—a pretty blonde with an almost scandalized look on her face. I stared back, blinking brunette from my eyes.

"You bet I will."

-

The place wasn't the topmost notch, but it was nicer than any place I'd ever eaten before, and enough to warrant concern over who would be paying my dinner bill. We'd been tucked into an intimate corner of _El Cisne_ with more "yes, sir, of course, sir," than I'd ever heard. Just by watching Mr. Stark's motions, from the way he addressed the waiters to the way the owners personally welcomed him, it was hard to believe that he didn't own the place.

A dry martini (with a few more olives than I would have liked, but I made no objection) and some brief small-talk later ("So, Miss Gray, are you married?" "How long have you been a reporter?"), Mr. Stark leaned his elbow very casually on the table and took a short breath.

"So, what do you want to know? Keep in mind that a lot of this information is confidential—super secret and stuff, the company would cry if I gave it away—but really, I'm ready to spill all that I can without being sued."

Taken aback by his unexpected forwardness, I pulled the notebook and pen from my purse and set them between us on the table, then looked up at him curiously.

"Well, even though the public's dying to know _why_ you became Iron Man—I  
mean, a billionaire like you should have no motive for becoming a so-called superhero—I actually have a question of my own, Mr. Stark," I began, looking up

_Oh God his eyes are so _blue_ don't look startled please don't look startled_

at his handsome face. Pause for effect. I continued, "Do you…really have that—_arc_ thing on your chest?"

His eyebrows shot up so fast that I was sure they were going to fly right off his face. Nevertheless, he laughed it off and picked up his fork. Mr. Stark rapped it against the center of his chest, from where came a muffled but very distinct _tink, tink!_ My jaw dropped.

"My God!" I exclaimed, all formalities forgotten. My salad fork fell from my hand and dropped to its plate with a clatter. "It sounds like a lot more than a piece of metal glued to your chest!"

Mr. Stark grinned and finished off his drink with a flourish. "That's because it is. I won't bore you with technical mumbo-jumbo, but it's a lot more than just a surface attachment. Actually—" he laughed now, reflectively. I sipped my drink and listened. "Pepper—Miss Pots, my PA, I should say—had to reach into it once because my own hand wouldn't fit."

"Wow, that's amazing."

"I could show you, if you'd like."

"I—" For the second time, I had been trapped with a comment. But instead of answering, I took a noncommittal swig from my drink and blinked a few times.

Luckily, our food arrived a moment later. Mr. Stark dropped the comment to begin the meal. I took the opportunity to move on to other questions, from how he became Iron Man to when he decided to go public. Most of the answers were brief or confidential, although on a few circumstances I wondered if he was still too stricken by his time in captivity to want to speak of it. To avoid more awkward moments, I dove into a few more drinks, most of which were incredibly expensive, at least for a reporter living from paycheck to paycheck. In other words, a mostly successful interview—especially for the first.

But as I realized before, the trouble with interviewing Tony Stark isn't getting him to dinner, oh no; it's getting out untouched, in both meanings of the word. And that's a lot harder than it might look, especially once booze enters the mix.

"This is all very interesting and all, but I'm stuffed." Setting his utensils down on either side of his plate, he took a drink and looked expectantly in my direction. "Let's continue this chat at my place, shall we?"

I faltered, heart fluttering, torn. "Mr. Stark—"

"Call me Tony," he cut in. I shifted in my chair as his hand found mine from across the table. "I insist."

"Mr. St—Tony, I mean. Do you really think it's appropriate—?"

"I really, really do."

Unfortunately, Tony Stark is just as charming as he is brilliant, and twice as handsome. So it wasn't long before he was escorting the pair of us out of the building and into the limo that was waiting by the curb, and it seemed like even less time until he was guiding me up the path of his Malibu mansion. I had had four drinks—maybe five, tops—but even one is enough to keep me from walking steady in my heels; I tripped slightly sideways up his steps, but he merely laughed and steadied my wayward frame with one arm. My brain spun.

The key was a fingerprint scanner. Talk about fancy. The guy was a billionaire, after all.

"Jarvis!"

"Welcome home, Sir."

Blinking furiously, I spun around, half dazed at the magnificent house that had unfolded before me. Even more confusing than the general hugeness of the place was the bodiless voice that didn't give me time to breathe before pointing a red beam of light between my eyes. I gasped.

"Jarvis—" Tony began, though it appeared the house was on a mission because it disregarded its inventor.

"Performing mandatory survey, as previously required. Gender: female. Five foot-six, 135 pounds. Natural hair color: blonde."

"Jarvis—"

"Blood-Alcohol level illegal, Cup size: 36-C. Rating six of ten, as compared to your usual standards, sir."

I was frozen in place with indignity and mingled horror. Tony, on the other hand, was staring at the ceiling as if the computer was bolted down there, his hands propped on his waist in a most skeptical pose.

"Jarvis, don't make me unplug you."

"My apologies, Sir."

I turned to Tony Stark, wide-eyed and a little more than overwhelmed at having been just examined by his computer system.

"I think I'm going to need a few more drinks."

-

_Part II: Desperate (?)_

The familiar rhythmic _thunk_ of his feet on the stairs prompted as little as a twitch from Pepper Pots, as did her boss's arrival in the kitchen, where he spent very little of his time. Leaning against the doorframe, the aforementioned boss crossed his arms and surveyed the black-clad woman through curious eyes.

"Someone's here a little early—does that mean I screwed something up?" observed an interested Tony Stark. His eyes scanned what he could see of his PA, who sat mostly hidden behind the latest edition of _Wow!_ Magazine. "Hey, is that me?"

Pepper turned a page distractedly in the magazine, dropping it below her eyes just long enough to confirm that he hadn't bothered changing from the clothes he had evidently passed out in the night before. His dark hair was tousled almost comically to one side, the arc reactor glowing through his black T-shirt.

"I'm not early; you slept in this morning. Yes, you are on the cover of this magazine, and did you have a visitor last night? Because you look scruffier than usual."

Ignoring her quip, he sat down across the small circular table and leaned most of his weight across it in order to get a better look at the glossy magazine cover. While it was by no means the best of snapshots, he'd definitely seen worse ones, and they had captured his confident side well enough (_as if it could be ignored_, he thought with a small smirk). The cover featured him walking at an angle towards the camera, jaw strong and one flank of Stark Industries visible against a cloudless sky. Tony pressed his hands against the table and leaned in closer still, until his actual face was barely two inches from the confident one on the cover.

"Ooh, I look good. And look!" He raised a finger and pointed at the figure trailing behind magazine Tony: a pretty but rather stressed-looking woman carrying a heavy suitcase in either hand. "It's you!" Tony tutted, then added in with false condescension, "But Miss Pots, I don't think they captured your stunning looks in this one—"

Pepper lowered the magazine and found herself nose-to-nose with a grinning Tony Stark, whose finger was still raised where her image had been a moment before. Her soft eyes met his brilliantly blue ones, the arched eyebrow and slight frown on her face just as impressive as his half-lidded grin. Their unblinking connection passed after a brief stare-down, at which point Pepper lifted the magazine between them like one would raise a curtain.

"Do you remember the interview you gave a few weeks ago?" she asked airily, flipping another page.

"Only because it's the _only_ interview I've given since the press conference—and also because that reporter was the only one I've taken home since before Afghanistan. Brunette, am I right?"

"Oh good, you _do_ remember," she replied pleasantly, but with an edge he didn't miss. "I was afraid you were too drunk to remember. I'm surprised _she_ remembered enough to write this article; she must have taken some pretty good notes."

"I find it hard to forget when I take a girl home and she's so drunk she throws up all over my—"

"Well now it's published," added Pepper hastily, dropping the rush in her voice as soon as she was sure he wasn't going to go on with his anecdote. "And… I'm not sure you're going to like it."

Tony helped himself to her chocolate muffin, casually calling over his shoulder for Jarvis to whip up a cup of coffee. Once it slid across the counter towards him, he picked it up and turned to his PA, asking, "Does it make me look like a manwhore? That I don't mind."

She merely shook her head—her hair was up this morning in a tight bun, which only made the matter seem all the more serious to him—and read aloud, "_Tony Stark: Man of Iron, or Yearning Celebrity Heart? I was fortunate enough to receive the only interview to date with Tony Stark, the brilliant weapons manufacturer, playboy, and now superhero. In this event I managed to uncover that there is more than what his red and gold exterior suggests, and got more personal than any reporter has ever dared to write before. I'm Katherine Gray, and this is 'The Real Tony Stark'_."

Shooting a glance over the top of her magazine at his expressionless, muffin-filled face and noting that he had stopped mid-chew, Pepper informed him, "Most of it is just a rant on how your entire corporation is just a cover up for your lonely heart, but there were a few highlights I found shareworthy. Like here—" Pepper flipped the page forward and read with a scrutinizing tone that he was all too familiar with:

"_Upon asking whether or not he actually had an arc reactor, he knocked on it with his fork and replied, 'It's not like a real heart, but it'll do for now'. He went on to explain that on several occasions he had needed mechanical help from his assistant, the famous Pepper Pots. 'It can be a hassle… she once had to stick her hand in my chest in order to pull a faulty wire—that was an experience I'm not likely to forget.' Aside from the question of whether or not his self-inflicting experiments are even legal, the metaphor behind the circumstances is romantic, even tragically so. What woman would argue against the fact that Tony Stark is the most profitable bachelor, and that she wouldn't dive for him if granted the opportunity? And yet, for Miss Pots, touching the cold heart of a billionaire only applies to a glowing blue pacemaker_."

Pepper gave an annoyed sigh. "As if I didn't already have enough to deal with, now I'm the desperate PA who can't keep her hands off her boss. Oh, but wait, here's my favorite part."

She cleared her throat. Tony took a drink from his coffee mug, but recoiled when it burned his tongue. Pepper didn't see this gesture through the pages of her magazine.

"_I found myself granted the opportunity to continue the interview in a way  
I had not been expecting—_"

"Like hell she wasn't," Tony spat sourly.

"Shh, this is the best part!" Pepper chastised, shushing him quickly away with a wave of one hand. When she spoke next, she read every word just long enough to make Tony feel rather uncomfortable. "_His kiss is passionless, first frantic and then full of longing for something more. You probably think that a billionaire would take his time with these sorts of things, but with Tony Stark there is no messing around._" Pepper pressed the open magazine down onto the table with her palms and looked at him across the table. "Mr. Stark, I believe you may have picked the wrong reporter this time around."

"Are you looking for a raise, Miss Pots? Because you continue to supply me with these brilliant observations—"

"Tell me, are your kisses really—" She glanced down at the magazine again, "—frantic and full of longing for something more?"

"Why don't you come over here and find out for yourself?"

Pepper was grinning now at his expense, unaware at just how annoyed the attack on his manliness had made him. His comments were only half as serious as they sounded—he was a fairly carefree guy by nature—but in truth, he had a feeling that the article would come back to haunt him. Hell, it might actually affect his love life, which had already been changed as of late; it was amazing how being trapped in a cave for three months could change a man. Most of the time he didn't even _want_ to bring anyone home, never mind actually getting around to it. Tony watched as Pepper, shaking her head at the article as she did so, closed the magazine and rose to her heel-clad feet. She could probably feel his eyes watching her curiously as she journeyed to the counter with her empty coffee cup and plate (equally as empty now, thanks to Mr. Stark), but viewing was harmless. Besides, he wasn't watching with hunger or greed, so who was to say he wasn't perfectly entitled to admire the way she moved in that dress?

Somewhere in his silent reflection—dark, mostly, since that article was still ringing in his head. What did that reporter know, anyway? She had been too wasted at the time, he was certain. Dumb bitch—Pepper had begun to inform him about the forthcoming events. Most of it didn't matter much to him either way, they both knew that, but he nevertheless allowed her to continue her speech.

"…and by that time the imports will have arrived, so Jason Matthews if going to pick them up with the truck—"

She stopped abruptly when she turned around and saw that he had indeed been paying no attention to her ramble, the look on his face both troubled and vacant. She could hardly blame him, since she had a feeling this wasn't what he had been expecting to wake up to.

"Did you hear a word I just said?"

Tony suddenly seemed to come to life, grabbing his coffee cup mechanically and drinking finishing it off in one long gulp. "Canadian imports, right," he replied, a little too quickly.

"Tony…" Pepper sighed. She rested her hands backwards against the counter and leaned her weight on them. "Don't think too much about that stupid article. Everyone who knows you knows that you're not desperate."

He stood up now, taking his mug along with him as he did so, and strode over beside her at the counter. "No harm done, Pepper, I'm over it already. Bad publicity is better than no publicity, right?"

He had sounded almost mechanical in his response, and she was no more certain than he. Pepper let out a small sigh.

"Maybe not in your case, Mr. Stark. You get enough as it is—" she broke off with a small grunt of effort as she turned around, opened one of the taller cabinets, and began fishing around with one hand, "Quite frankly, I don't want to be the one sorting all your mail."

"Corporate complaints?" he asked, reaching over her head and grabbing the object she had been making feeble snatches at from where she stood on her tiptoes.

She turned to him with a somewhat disgruntled look on her face, and he grinned in reply, handing her the package. Tony closed the cabinet and leaned sideways to have better eye contact with his PA.

"No," she said, "Fan mail from all the women who want to heal your 'lost soul'." Pepper tapped the blue-glowing device that lay visible beneath his shirt and added, "Most of them probably just want to get a better look at _this_."

Tony grinned. "Miss Pots, you know you can always look at my chest whenever you want."

"I don't recall ever sending you a letter, Mr. Stark," she replied with a slight smirk.

The billionaire's bottom lip pouched out in a phony expression of dejection, though admittedly he couldn't deny a small twinge that panged to the left of his arc reactor. Not that he had been expecting her to send a letter, of course, but he found it slightly amusing (and ironically discouraging) that the only woman he'd ever let freely "fix his lost soul" was the one who allowed herself to feel the least for him, the woman now offering him the package he'd rescued from the cabinet. His eyebrows shot up.

"Styrofoam?" asked Tony.

"Rice cakes," Pepper replied.

Tony made a face, but that didn't stop him from reaching out and taking one of the cylindrinical flat cakes. She was watching him intensely and with some amusement, as if she were a scientist watching a failing test run. And when he bit the rice cake, cringed, and handed her the rest, she laughed at his reaction.

"Tastes like Styrofoam to me," he said.

"I'm sorry Mr. Stark, but do you spend a lot of time eating Styrofoam?"

"Hey, if you work with anything long enough, you're bound to taste it." Tony shrugged. One hand found the countertop, steadying his tired frame, his eyebrows rising at his PA.

Pepper's breath fluttered in a quick exhale. While they clearly both had more to say on the matter, Pepper was hardly the type to flirt with her boss, especially in a place as crude as the kitchen—only God knew the dubious things he'd most likely done in this place. The thought was enough to make her withdraw her hand from the countertop, yet it only fueled the comment on the tip of her tongue. She took a moment to consider his words before shooting him one of those slick glances and replying, quite simply:

"We've been working together for an awfully long time."

The smirk dipped from his unshaven face, but it was back in an instant. Raising his eyebrows, Tony declared that he thought it was time he got back to work. Pepper agreed with this statement, and with one last solid look he turned away from his PA and headed off towards his workplace. Pepper's eyes followed him out the door as he went, she waiting until his feet had sounded down the staircase before she allowed herself a slight laugh.

Crossing the room to her seat once more, she sat down and picked up the open magazine. His handsome face stared back at her from the inside article, mostly serious but with the trace of humor that always seemed to be around him whenever he approached good-looking women. Pepper tore her gaze away from the image, sighing.

"Tony Stark: famous, rich, and maybe a _little_ desperate," she laughed quietly.

Pepper laughed it off this time, as she would many times in the future, but even the sharply-dressed redhead couldn't deny that she had indeed felt something back on that party rooftop and even just a few minutes ago while Tony stole her muffin from across the table. And something, she noted with a sudden dark frown, was a whole lot more than she needed to feel for her boss.

Still, this unease didn't stop her eyes from lingering a little too long on the front cover of the magazine (although, admittedly, she determinedly avoided looking at herself in the background), nor did it stop an ironic smile from turning in her mouth.

"Maybe," she mused hesitantly, "he's not the only desperate one around here." Pepper paused thoughtfully. The thought crossed her mind that maybe she would take him for a bite to eat later and have a talk about her limits as his employer, but the ever-steadfast part of her brain reminded her that that was probably a bad idea.

After all, the trouble with interviewing Tony Stark is most definitely not getting him to dinner.

-

_Fin._

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A/n: Whoo! Yay for my first story.

Now actually, this story will be a collection. If I ever feel like writing Iron Man stuff (all too likely), I'll post it here to avoid clutter and spamming the people who have me on author alert (Avatards, namely, and maybe a HP fan or two!).

Anyway, thanks so much for reading! I hope you liked it, and that I got the characters fairly close to "right".


	2. White Dresses

A/n: So I've spent the last few days trying to hammer out this HP piece I've been working on, then got sidetracked by another Iron Man piece. I haven't really been able the get the words out without feeling unconfident about it. But today, I sat down at my computer and typed this all up at once, no hesitation (except for the run I took halfway through).

SO, I ask you to please read this all the way through first, regardless of your first opinion. It might change, you never know...! Tony and Pepper are both a bit older in this one, as it takes place after Tony's been involved with the Avengers and all that, though knowing this tidbit of information is sort of pointless, so let's get to the story!

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Happy Reading!

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_White Dresses_

Tony Stark wiped his sweaty palms against the legs of his Armani tuxedo and heaved a long sigh. His bow tie was too tight, the air too thick with nervous sweat even in the air-conditioned place. Ever since eight in the morning, he'd been bossed around (unusual in its own right) and doted on by good-looking women with hairdryers and makeup (not so unusual), then shoved into a limousine and escorted to the park with the rest of the party, where he was subject to roughly two hours of torturous picture-taking. As if the sun had not been hot enough, Pepper had insisted that everyone remain traditional and rented all the tuxes in black. This, Tony realized about the minutes into the photo shoot, made the sunlight about three times hotter, but he wasn't in a position to argue. Her parents had covered the attire, he himself had taken care of the transportation costs—it was the least he could do, after everything.

So he had stood there and smiled for every picture until he was sure his face would fall off—God, he'd never been in more pictures his whole life. He didn't even _know_ most of these people—at which point they had been ushered once again into the limo and carted off towards the town's church.

Now, as he stood at the head of the altar in front of a thousand faces he didn't recognize, he wanted to be nowhere else but home, perhaps curled up in bed with the covers tucked around his neck. Anywhere but here, with the heat and the people and the camera flashes and the _smiles_. He didn't know how everyone could be smiling when he felt his very world crumbling all around him. Sure, he and Pepper had discussed it a number of times, but now that he was _here_—

The music struck a chord, a crescendo of Mozart or one of those dead composers; he'd never worried much about music, in his youth. Though hardly loud, it startled him enough so that he jumped noticeably where he stood. Then came a chuckle off to his right, a thump on the back that didn't help his nausea.

"A little nervous?" whispered a voice.

Tony turned to Happy Hogan—his best friend, the only man who could ever make him feel like an idiot—with a quick shake of his head, although it was quite obvious that neither believed the gesture. Happy laughed, radiant.

"Don't worry about it, Tony, it'll be great," he grinned at the billionaire. "I've been in a thousand of these things, it's no biggie."

Tony gave a quiet, disbelieving chuckle. "I don't know how you're so calm. If I sweat any more I'm going to have to strip down right here."

"Here, well, have this—" Happy reached into one of his tux pockets, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it into Tony's sweaty hand. "And try not to get pit stains on that tux. I'm sure most of the women won't mind if you get naked, but I'll bet Pepper'll have us both killed."

Tony grinned at the validity of this comment, if begrudgingly so. He wasn't quite sure what to say at the moment, how to explain to Happy that he regretted this day more than any in his entire life, but luckily (or perhaps unluckily so), he didn't have to. The sound of hushed whispers began to fill the chapel, a sound like gas seeping from the back of the church to where Tony Stark stood in all his misery, without a gas mask to keep the poison away. He didn't even dare to blink, lest he miss something drastic. A drop of sweat rolled unnoticed down the side of his face, and though he knew in his mind that he must just _stay put_, his heart began to design elaborate scenes in which he leapt forward, waving his arms madly and shouting that they must put an abrupt end to this madness. He and Pepper had decided long ago that it could never work between the two of them, so why had he just stood to the side and let his fate unfurl before him, twisting and unguided like tendrils of smoke?

And then he saw her.

To be honest, Tony had never much admired white dresses. They were too pure, always too conservative for the kind of girls he typically philandered with, and as far as he was concerned Pepper was more of an ocean blue than a white, so he was especially surprised when the wooden doors of the chapel opened and Pepper Pots began her descent down the aisle, donned in the purest shade of white that made his chest melt.

Never in his life had Tony Stark felt so torn. On one hand, he wanted with all his heart to save himself by stopping the wedding and telling Pepper that he just couldn't do it, yet at the same time his eyes flitted across her bright face and he knew that his love for her, the very need to make sure she would always be happy, would always take precedence over the latent dread. He, Iron Man, was too dangerous anyway, too much of a target, and those who associated with him were targets as well; Pepper had been a target her fair share of times already.

While she walked slowly, gracefully down the aisle in the most wonderful dress he had ever set eyes on, he stood in his silent contemplation that they were making the worst mistake of their lives. He wondered briefly of Happy could sense his discomfort—or that he knew its source, more like, and he consequently cast a sideways glance in his friend's direction only to see that Hogan, like everyone else, had his eyes fixed on the bride. He was smiling, and he looked at Tony and suddenly Tony realized that he should be smiling too, but when he tried he only seemed to make himself look more strained than before. Nobody would think twice about it, of course; Tony had never done this before, after all, and it was his Pepper walking down the aisle.

Pepper, dressed in a white dress with a ridiculously long train, the front hemmed just enough so that he could see her ever-present taste of stilettos poking out with each step. Pepper, whose red hair sat in half-pinned curls and a modest veil, one of her arms wrapped around one of her weeping father's. Pepper, who had spent more time rolling her eyes at him and scheduling and rescheduling and laughing than any woman he'd ever met, or would ever meet. Tony stared shamelessly at every aspect of that white dress and the woman so perfectly dressed in it, taking in every feature from the tied waist to the flowers in her hand to the delicately radiant grin she bore. One of his hands twitched by his side, his left middle finger rubbing against his naked ring finger and making his heart flip-flop once or twice.

It was time. Tony took a deep breath.

Pepper left her father at the bottom of the red-carpeted stairs and took one, two, three steps to the top, where she reached out and took the sweaty hand of her undoubtedly nervous groom. Tony, who only just realized that he had been holding his breath, let it out only once her eyes met his from where she stood. His dilated eyes followed her arm, the smooth curve of her bare shoulders and finally her elegant back as she made her way past him, her arm gently brushing his with the innocence of a young child. The effervescence of her perfume momentarily overwhelmed his senses—how many times had he smelled it, on a casual day?—before it too passed, and he knew that it was finally, after years and years of trying, gone.

The priest began to talk, but he wasn't listening much (she would kill him if he ever told her, of course, but that meant nothing), as the very scent of her had sent him into a dizzying daydream, a recollection of one of those summer days the pair of them had spent together in Malibu, just talking over coffee and a pile of paperwork. For the first time, a genuine smile crept up in the corners of Tony's mouth, and the bridesmaid he'd apparently had his eyes fixed on took it to be directed at her. She smiled back, suggestive, the curve of her eyebrow rising delicately against a decorated face, but once he blinked back to reality and set his stare back on the priest, she frowned.

_Maybe I'll ask her out at the reception_, he half-joked to himself.

The priest's words brought him reeling back to reality, where the air was hot and the arc reactor beneath his tux seemed to be on the fritz.

"Do you, Virginia Potts, take this man…"

Tony felt that dreadful sensation in his throat again, swallowing it back down with a bit of effort and thankful that he had turned his back on the audience to follow the procession.

"I do."

He frowned. The dress was white—a symbol of purity and love and innocence, and yet the thing she was doing to him was more evil than any villain he had faced. She should have been wearing black, Tony decided. He wondered if she had ever thought twice.

"And do you, Harold Hogan, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? Do you pledge to share your life with her openly, to tell the truth to her in love?"

_I should have told her,_ he scolded himself.

"Do you promise to honor and tenderly care for her, to cherish and encourage her own fulfillment as an individual, and to love and respect her through all the changes of your lives? If so, please answer, 'I do.'

_I do_.

"I do," said Happy.

Tony bowed his head, the slightest bit. Right now, he would be the most fantastic best man that Happy could ever ask for. He'd smile for photographs, his speech would be perfect, and when he would ask for a dance with Pepper, he'd congratulate her and wish her the best. Because he really did want the best for her—he only wished he could have been the one to supply it. He'd smile and laugh, but he would not feel it. He might be happy for them in due time, but right now all he could feel was that a part of him had died with those words, a part he would likely never get back.

"You may kiss the bride."

Tony Stark closed his eyes.

-

_Fin._

* * *

A/n: Yeah, okay, I'm sorry. I really am! I told myself that I'd wait at least three updates before hammering out the somber stuff, but I just couldn't help myself this time.

But the next time I update, I swear it'll be happier! Thanks so much for reading, and any constructive criticism is welcome.

But P.S: Please don't leave reviews saying "blah blah that could never happen etc etc", because it definitely did during the comic series. Although Tony and Pepper are working together in the Civil War universe again, and I'll just neglect to mention Happy's untimely demise and Pepper's love for him... :D


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